


K(no)w Limits

by Ladeeknight



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Multi, Post Long Night, Ritualized Sex, Rough Sex, Threesome - F/M/M, trouble conceiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 15:05:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17789645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladeeknight/pseuds/Ladeeknight
Summary: Post Long Night Show Compliant. Sansa needs an heir. She and Sandor have been trying all kinds of freaky stuff to get her pregnant with no luck. Beric has a R'hollar ritual that Sandor is not going to like at all.





	K(no)w Limits

**Author's Note:**

> I am fascinated with some of the modern au Beric&Sandor friendship. I don't really know how I went from crushing on that friendship to what is about to go down here, but...here we go. If you have sensitives to couples trying to have a baby this may not be the fic for you...unless *Spoilers!* you like happy endings.   
> There will probably be mentions of past abuse. I will mark that clearly and provide summaries for anything you might miss. First chapter is clear of that.  
> There will be angst.   
> There will be smut in the first chapter.   
> Happy Valentine's Day!

“Sandor.” Her voice is musical melancholy, flowing into the cracks of his being, seeping, seeking a calming, comforting balm. He has heard his name as lustsong from her lips through many a long night. Sandor could only dimly remember a time where that was only a shameful wank dream. Now it was his life, but it no longer fucking mattered because their joining bore no fruit. And he was the useless, buggering idiot that had gone and lost his temper when her moon blood stained the sheets this morning. His name on her lips was no longer a plea to have her lust sated, but to bloody comfort him. Fuck that shit! If you can’t be a man in the way she needs you to be in bed, then you can bloody well be the man she needs out of it.  
“Cease, your chirping Little Bird,” he held his arm out to her. When she stepped into his reach, her skirts brushed his boots; he wound his arm around her slender waist trying not to care that it would not thicken with child anytime soon. She yielded at his touch, so he could tell she was not mad at him. They were alone in the breezeway between stalls in the stables of Winterfell. Sandor was sitting on an overturned water barrel, there was no place else for Sansa to sit, so he pulled her into his lap. “I’m sorry I lost my shit this morning,” he said, hanging his head. He’d rather be kissing her temple in the place where the red waves of her hair met the stark white shores of her brow, but he didn’t feel he had the right at the moment after the way he’d behaved.  
Sansa’s pale strong fingers met at the base of his skull, just under his salt and pepper queue and began kneading away a headache he didn’t even know he had. Her hands were cold, but he didn’t mind. He was overheated from having a go at the post placed inside Stranger’s old stall specifically for that purpose. Sandor needed a place where he could vent his frustration that was not the training yard. The Consort of the Lady of Winterfell could not be seen having a tantrum in the yard. There was already talk of the lateness of the heir to Winterfell, he didn’t need to set tongues wagging by beating the bloody seven hells out of an unlucky bannerman. Sandor lead these men into battle; he could not allow the soldiers to see him in an uncontrolled rage. The grooms knew to clear out when they saw him carry bared steel up the breezeway.   
Sandor felt a twinge of guilt for letting Sansa pet him when he had behaved so badly and assuaged that guilt, by clamping his huge calloused hand low on her stomach and digging the scraped knuckles of his other hand into her lower back. She melted into him like dripping Springtime. This made him more aware of the constant patter of water outside from melting snow, and he hoped this was not another false Spring. His worries were born away on the groan Sansa breathed into the hole that served him as an ear. “Maiden, Mother, and Crone that feels good.”  
Though Sandor himself knew that she just meant that his actions were relieving the cramps in her womb, his cock stood up straight up to find what mischief it could. Sandor tried to shift so that Sansa would not be burdened with the knowledge of his post rage desire. He figured that her courses were her time to rest from the reproductive nightmare that their life had become. “Oh,” she exclaimed softly, and then, “Ohhh,” she moaned throatily grinding her soft round arse into him.  
“Sansa?” her name emerged raggedly as something between a groan and growl. He wasn’t sure what he was seeking, permission…acceptance.  
“I’m sorry,” she murmured attempting feebly to draw away from him. “I’m sure you don’t want to deal with the mess.”  
“Fuck the mess,” Sandor snarled pressing more firmly on her lower abdomen to increase the pressure of her ass against his cock.  
“That does seem to be what you are trying to do.” She ended the statement with a rueful laugh, but her voice was thick with unshed tears. This was not Sandor’s first encounter with Sansa’s mixed emotions and though it was hard for him to deal with the hydra that was the spectrum of things that made his wife cry, especially during this time of the month, she more than made up for it by being the light of his life. And so he armored himself with the compassion she had taught him, and walked his knuckles up her spine, eliciting a beautiful chorus of moans.  
“What do you mean by that?” Sandor had learned early on in his marriage that a question such as this could wash away all hope sex for days if not a whole week, but sometimes it allowed him to know her better. He was not hurting for sex at the moment as getting an heir seemed to be consuming his every waking thought, but he definitely felt as if he did not know his wife of late.  
Sansa’s coppery lashes swept up so that she met Sandor’s eyes for the first time since joining him in the stables, perhaps for the first time in weeks. Her vivid blue eyes were awash with unshed tears. “I was referring literally to the bloody mess between my thighs,” it seemed like she might stop there, but then she issued a deep sigh, and continued, “and the bloody mess that is my life as a ruler, with all its dull responsibility of rule, and urgent need for an heir.” Staring directly into her hurt was not easy, but Sandor was not a man to look away from hard truths. “You’ve done so much. Tried every cockamamie, superstition, potion, and position.”   
“Some of those positions were alright,” Sandor said, trying like hell to be comforting without lying. They had spend an entire month fucking with Sansa hanging upside down. That had been quite the workout, but not a chore, really, as he had been doing his favorite thing. But when the next superstition had changed their strategy Sandor had no been sorry to lie between his wife's legs once more. Some of the shit had been downright weird and uncomfortable. The mustard poultice had burned like fire and he did not want to think about the weirwood acorn paste. The last conjure woman had told him not to wear small clothes. He'd answered the little old wood’s witch that drawers were not a problem as he’d always like the feel of swinging free when not armored. She’d toothlessly grinned at him sinfully and that had probably been the most favorable advice he’d heard so far.  
Sansa’s hand left the nape of his neck to come around and cup the burnt side of his face. “I know you hate it, though. I know you like things to be simple and straight forward.” He could see something in her eyes that went beyond sorrow now. He could not place it, but it made chills roll down his spine.  
“Aye, but I’m not a man to avoid a mess that needs tending.” Suddenly he had a need to be deep inside her. He wanted to fuck that look out of her eyes. His grip on her gut tightened convulsively, and he broke their eye contact to suck the sensitive skin beneath her jaw that made her hips buck. “Will you let me have you?” His large hand splayed on her so that his smallest finger searched for the cleft between her thighs, thwarted of course by the rags between her legs.   
“Gods yes,” Sansa sighed as she began squirming, not to get away, but to get his hands where they would do her the most good. He thought he also heard her muttering under her breath about thrice damned rags. She turned, so she was mounted astride him her skirts bunched around them. Sandor wanted to rip her bodice and bare her teats, but he knew this was a favorite gown that she'd worked hard on so he began to work at the laces. “Here?” Sansa gasped, after a few blissful moments of him nuzzling the tops of her breasts as skin became available to him. He chuckled at the length of time it took for her to divine his intentions. Men were not the only ones rendered unthinking with lust.  
“Oh aye. The lads will give me at least an hour to cool down. Maybe more if they spied you come looking for me. We used to clear the stables for hours.” He grinned up at her, willing to remember the days following their wedding when they were so relieved to have their relationship sanctified that they would couple wherever it took their fancies. Sandor would always glare the space empty as he would not share the sight of Sansa’s body with anyone. There were grumbles about nothing getting done when parts of the castle were randomly inaccessible for unknown periods of time, but the Lady would do as pleased and no one wanted to argue with her giant, scarred Consort. Not so secretly the household was pleased that their Lady was happy after all the misery she'd endured, and that the man who had literally stood between the dead and Winterfell would be making his permanent home here. He was gruff, but fair as any Stark would be, though he still went by his own name. Or at least that’s the gist of what Sandor’s sharp ears had picked up around the kitchen fires of a night. “If that’s alright? If not I’d be happy to throw you over my shoulder and carry you upstairs.”  
“No, here is fine. I think the maids may still be clearing up in our room.” Sansa said hesitantly.   
Right, Sandor thought, because I am a bloody, buggering arse hole and threw a tantrum like a wain. He didn’t deserve a bairn if he was going to act like one. He felt the blood rising in his face. “Can you forgive me?” he asked out loud.  
“Yes,” Sansa replied. “It’s no more than what I am doing on the inside.”  
Sandor snorted. “At least one of is adult enough to keep it on the inside.”  
“It may do more damage in here,” Sansa said quietly, her hand rubbing her chest.   
Here comes another hydra Sandor thought, as he leaned in to kiss her fretting fingers. “Then take it out on me,” he said as he stood cupping her arse. He turned and slid Stranger’s old stall open with his shoulder.  
Her elegant copper brows furrowed as she looked down on him, clasping her thighs firmly about his waist. “I could never do something like that.”  
“Never is it?” Sandor queried raising his only eyebrow skeptically. “What about the time I wouldn’t let you cum and laid scratches down my back with your wee talons?” He set her back against his trashing post and held her up with a knee braced under her bum going for her laces in earnest.  
Blushing fiercely, Sansa rocked on his knee. He hoped she was remembering how epically hard and loud she had cum when he’d finally asked her to sing for him. “We’ll see,” she panted. “You won’t have access to your full arsenal today.”  
“True,” he admitted. Sandor almost always started off the night with his head between her legs, both because he craved the taste of her and loved the way she thrashed around, but ultimately because that is how he got the best, loudest songs from her. Sandor got her laces undone while she was talking and buried his head where he could. Her lovely pink nipples always looked to him as if they were begging to be kissed so he obliged them sucking each one into his mouth and circling it with his tongue. This made Sansa wriggle against the knee he had braced under her. The wound that had almost left him dead would not take much more of these shenanigans and he cast about the stable for a better perch for his Little Bird.  
Sandor spied the manger that hadn’t held a stick of hay since Stranger’s last meal. It was dusty, but it wouldn’t be scratchy. He buried his face in Sansa’s soft neck and carried her over the wall mounted trough and set her in it. Sandor was pleased that he wouldn’t have to stoop very much to suck her teats. No sense getting a crick in my neck, he thought, as he set about it.   
Sandor took his time, laving each nipple until they were the color of cherries. Meanwhile, Sansa dug her heel into the base of his spine, wriggling like an eel making straining, whimpering noises that let him know she was just about ripe for the plucking. Under normal circumstances, Sandor would have had his hand up her skirts five minutes ago to see if she was ready for him. He’d have to judge by sound today not wanting to smear her with blood. “How do you want it?” he rasped in her ear before worrying the lovely lobe between his teeth.  
“From behind,” she gasped. He stopped momentarily, sucking her ear thoughtfully. She almost never let him take her from behind. He had plenty of suspicions, but they never spoke about it. Every once in a while, if she’d had a lot of wine, she would make the request, but when one of the crones suggested it as a way of getting pregnant…well, that was the only suggestion they had not tried. It didn’t bother Sandor as his biggest turn on was having her eyes on his as she fell apart in his arms. For most of his life, from behind was the only way the whores would take him without paying extra, so he'd had enough of that to last him. Sansa must have perceived the momentary hitch in the proceedings as she added, “I think it will be less mess that way.”  
“And I can rub your back, aye?” he rumbled. The groan he received in reply had him hastening to flip her over.  
The manger seemed to be the perfect height for her to lean on. As he rucked up her skirts, he was treated to the sight of her long shapely legs poised her toes, presenting her lovely backside to him. He reached for the ties of her small clothes and carefully removed them and the belt that held her rags in place. These he hung on the hook that had previously held tack up out of the dust and dirt of the stable floor. “You have the most gorgeous round arse I have ever laid eyes on,” Sandor informed her one hand on his laces and the other squeezing the ass in question. His breeches dropped into the dirt with an audible thud, and Sansa moaned again and pushed back against him. “Eager are we?” Sandor asked fisting his weeping cock, swiping the head of it up her slit to gauge her readiness.   
Sansa mewled wantonly and thrust her hips back at him. “Gods yes. Sandor please.”  
“Please what Little Bird?” he asked wickedly giving her rump a small, sharp slap. She seemed ready.  
Sansa emitted a squeal and turned to look over her shoulder at him, pinning him with her glinting blue gaze she said exactly what he wanted to hear. “Fuck me now, please.” It was not a request, and Sandor felt his knees go weak and his sack clench. He had almost shot his load the first time she’d used foul language during foreplay and the whip crack of command in her voice never failed to give him a raging hard-on.  
Sandor lined the head of his cock up with her entrance and slid home. Gods she was hot and wet. She always was, but today with her moon blood on her, she was even more so. Sansa moaned, and it didn’t sound like all pleasure. “Did I hurt you, Little Bird? Do you want me to stop?”  
“Yes, but no. Gods, do that again, but can you rub my back too, please?” her well-loved voice ran the edge between pleasure and pain.   
“As my Lady commands.” He clasped her back, his thumbs to either side of her delicate spine his finger splaying out over flared hips and began pressing slow circles into her white skin. Her pussy clamped down on him, and he thrust into that tightness. Her moans were low and throaty and interspersed with curse words that made his cock twitch. Sandor felt his release coming on. He let go of her back to reach around to find her clit.   
Sansa elbowed his hand out of the way panting, “Don’t stop…my back. I can reach this.” Sandor did as he was bid and resumed rubbing her back and thrusting into her trying not to let the picture of Sansa’s strong, delicate fingers dancing nimbly around her clit make cum before he got her off. “Harder,” she commanded. Sandor obligingly increased his pace and the pressure on her back. “Harder!” she demanded. The squashy slap of their joining grew louder, and Sansa moaned thrusting back at him. “When I cum I want you to give me everything that you’ve got,” Sansa panted. Sandor had never unleashed the full fury of his body on Sansa. And he probably never would, but he’d pretend if that was what she wanted.  
“Well then let’s hear it, then” he ground out pounding into her. “Sing my little bird.” Sansa’s back arched, and he caught a flash of one pretty white teat bouncing wildly as he thundered into her. It was marred by bloody fingerprints. So she’s been pinching her own nipples too, he thought. Then she started pulsing all around him, her orgasm milking his cock. Sandor pounded into her as she came screaming his name. This was probably going to end in swords and guards, but at this moment he didn’t care if every guard in Winterfell buggered him with red hot pokers. Sandor Clegane fucked his wife for no other reason than that they wanted to.

**Author's Note:**

> Hoped you guys enjoyed that. I am trying to establish Sansa and Sandor as a happily, if stressfully married couple of a few years. The kinkier stuff is coming. If you have any weird customs or superstitions about getting pregnant that you'd like to share please do, I might reference it in the story. Also if think of any that might come from canon, I'd love to hear those too. Thanks for reading. Happy Valentine's Day.


End file.
